


A Brand New Itch

by green_grrl



Category: due South RPF
Genre: M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-25
Updated: 2010-12-25
Packaged: 2019-06-13 23:24:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15375708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_grrl/pseuds/green_grrl
Summary: By green_grrlPaul's known Callum for years. How did he not know this? A new kink is born.





	A Brand New Itch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helens78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/gifts).



> This story was originally archived at [Pretty Lights](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pretty_lights)

Paul hiked across the green until he spotted, among the foursome at the third hole, the man he'd been looking for. He'd recognize that stance anywhere, weight shifted to one hip, and, yes, there was the faded blond hair.   
  
For a second, though, nothing else was familiar. Suddenly, in this setting, Callum looked every inch the Scottish native, indistinguishable from the pub denizens he was playing with. Well, other than being a bit younger, less gone to paunch and—as Paul approached—a hell of a lot more good looking. Yeah, that was Callum all right, even decked out in a faded black T shirt and an even more faded kilt.   
  
A couple of the other men on the course were wearing kilts as well—unselfconscious, just another work-a-day wardrobe item. In Canada a kilt was special occasion wear, dress tartans for weddings and funerals. Callum had gone casual in that scene from  _Californication_ , but Paul had taken it for a stunt—Callum and David egging each other on to push the character even farther.   
  
Apparently not just a stunt. And this rough, workingman's kilt fit Callum even better. Paul was surprised at the intense flash of desire to get his hands on Callum's hips and start  _exploring_.   
  
He hung back a few minutes longer, until he wouldn't interrupt a shot, before approaching. "It really is a small world."   
  
Of course since Callum pretty much defined laid-back, the extent of his surprise when he turned was that his eyes widened slightly. "Paul," he acknowledged. "What are you doing in Gorebridge?"   
  
"In Gorebridge? Looking you up. I was in Edinburgh, trying to get the ball rolling on the Thomas Douglas film I've been working on. I heard third-hand you were down here visiting family, so I figured I'd see if I could run into you." The town was small enough that it had taken all of twenty seconds before somebody had pegged him as "another one of them Canadian lads" and pointed him to the golf course.   
  
Callum nodded, unflappable as always. "You just caught me. In another couple of days I'll be in Aberdeen." He glanced off to the side and Paul followed his look, seeing the next foursome getting closer. Callum asked, "Where're you staying?"   
  
"I don't know yet; I decided to find you first."   
  
"The Ivory House is pretty much the only place in town—left and about a mile and a half up. Better go try your luck." And with that Callum's attention was starting to turn towards his shot.   
  
"Yeah, okay."   
  
One of the other men added, "We'll be at the Stobsmill Inn, after, around the corner from the inn."   
  
"Right, then," Paul acknowledged with a salute, and trekked back to the rental car. Competing with a little white ball for Callum's attention was a losing proposition at the best of times. He'd been lucky to get five minutes while Callum was golfing with family on a popular public course.   
  
\- - - - -   
  
A few hours later Paul had secured a room, finished a round of phone calls and e-mails and edited his outline. Again. It was pub time.   
  
It was no problem finding Callum, up at the bar ordering a round of beers and a tonic water and lime. The drape of the kilt where Callum had one foot up on the bar rail was giving Paul very good ideas—not-so-good ideas to be having in a public place, but he couldn't help it.   
  
He slipped up behind him. "I could pick those flat Canadian vowels out of the brogue from across the room," he said quietly into Callum's ear.   
  
Callum, the zen bastard, didn't react at all to Paul's sudden, close presence, or to his statement, except to turn sideways and roll out with a perfect Scots burr, "Ya baw-heidit eejit, ya havnae a scooby. Ah kin act the bletherskite and yi'll nae ha' the lugs ta ken."   
  
Fuck. Paul had to fight to keep his eyes from closing and his knees from buckling as all his blood went elsewhere.   
  
Callum just smirked. "Ye've a moosh like ah battered ye skelly."   
  
Paul ignored whatever the hell it was Callum was saying—he was pretty sure he was being insulted. "Didn't know your accent was so good," he said instead, grateful it came out sounding controlled.   
  
Callum shrugged and slipped back into Canadian English. "Grew up with it. A little of Mackem, but mostly brogue." He took a casual drag off his cigarette.   
  
Paul furiously reworked his movie outline in his head, because, godammit, all of a sudden he had to cast Callum in this project like he had to  _breathe_ , and why the hell hadn't he thought of it before? The whole kilt and accent thing was going to melt Cal's fanbase into puddles, and make mainstream viewers and critics sit up and take notice. Maybe even another Gemini. Yeah, okay, so maybe the thought of Geminis got Paul hot, too. Sue him. He wouldn't say anything until he'd edited the outline, though.   
  
Callum broke into Paul's musings to lead him back to a table and introduce his cousins. Paul spent the next few hours describing the not-so-glamorous world of movie financing and location scouting, and trying to keep up with the conversation as alcohol thickened the Rennie men's accents.   
  
Eventually Callum gave the excuse that he should walk Paul back to their inn, and Paul obligingly claimed it had been a long day even though the sun was still up.   
  
As they tromped along the side of the road, Paul decided to take advantage of his first real alone time with Callum that day. He put all the low purr he'd spent a career cultivating into his voice. "I have to say, I'm  _loving_  the kilt."   
  
Callum just tipped him a look that was equal parts studied disinterest and humour. "Oh, yeah?"   
  
Paul felt his interest surge and grinned inside. Callum normally ranged from sincere to blunt; this was sign he was willing to indulge Paul's kink for overcoming a challenge.   
  
"What's not to love," he lobbed back. "A fine view of your legs, and nothing in the way of the fun bits but a hem that can just ... lift." Fuck, he was turning himself on even more just thinking about it.   
  
"So, what," Callum said. "You're saying what you're looking for is easy access?"   
  
"Well ..."  _Of course_ , thought Paul, but he was caught trying to determine whether that was in some way the wrong answer.   
  
Fortunately he got a reprieve as they entered the foyer of the Ivory House. Then once they reached the deserted corridor outside Paul's room, Callum filled in his own answer. "Sauce for the gander." He gave Paul a poke in the chest and a playful grin that had bite. "Ask me again when you're wearing one." He left Paul staring after him as he continued down the hall.   
  
\- - - - -   
  
The door was just two down from his own. Paul knocked. It opened, and he let Callum take in the fact that he was indeed wearing a kilt.   
  
For once, Callum didn't have a cigarette going, but he tipped his head back and squinted at Paul through his lashes anyway, like he was keeping smoke out of his eyes. Then he stepped back and held the door wide in invitation. Callum was always quick on the uptake; Paul loved that about him.   
  
Paul's cock firmed and nudged the light wool draped over it. Jesus, he knew drag queens fastened their junk down to keep from ruining under their skirt lines, but what did you do with a kilt? Just let it poke on out there? He wished the movie was already started so he'd have a wardrobe expert to ask.   
  
Callum wasn't giving much away, as usual, but Paul knew him well enough to read a "yes" that had his own eyes gleaming with anticipation and a smile fighting to come out. He wouldn't give Callum the satisfaction, though, even though he knew Callum knew damn well the effect he had on him.   
  
Now Callum did reach for a cigarette, which meant the groping wouldn't be immediate. He lit, exhaled, and tipped his head to the side. "Martha?"   
  
Paul huffed a breath of amusement through his nose. "You know you're a permanent pass. Still," he added, "I did call her and tell her I was in this one-inn town with you. And that you're in a kilt. She wants to see."   
  
He pulled his iPhone from his sporran and snapped a pic of Callum looking through his smoke. It was the same cocky stance as always, but the old T and the kilt over bare legs and feet elevated it to pure pornography. Well, Callum was always pure pornography, but this was, what, quadruple X or something. Martha was going to wet right through her panties.   
  
After a couple of shots, though, Callum made the bug-eyed face at the camera he always did when he was caught being filmed as Callum-the-man rather than in-character—the look that meant to say he was goofing around for the camera, but really said he was uncomfortable with the attention and was covering for it with silliness.   
  
"Bastard, this is the new model, isn't it?" Callum grumbled, and snatched the iPhone out of Paul's hand. He took another drag and checked out the display.   
  
"You're just jealous because you want one," Paul retorted, and that hit won one of Callum's lightning grins and sparkling glances.   
  
"Fuck the pictures of me, she's your wife." Callum had figured out the camera and stepped back to take a shot of Paul in his kilt. Not that Paul minded; he'd never met a camera he didn't like. And vice versa. Callum stubbed out his cigarette to concentrate on the display and Paul grinned and struck another pose, palming his cock over the fabric of the kilt; then another, stripteasing the sporran off his waist and tossing it aside; then another, starting to inch the fabric up.   
  
"Bloody fookin' exhibitionist," Callum said, watching the pictures on the screen.   
  
"You're going native," noted Paul, lifting the hem to just below his crotch.   
  
"Fuck this," said Callum, voice completely Canadian again. He tossed the iPhone lightly to the bed where it slid off and fell to the carpet on the far side. "Make porn for Martha on your own time."   
  
He tackled Paul to the bed with a wild grin. Christ, that was more like it! Paul tested his wrists against Callum's hold, then pushed his hips up against the body weighing him down. Provoking Callum into losing his zen-like stillness was one of Paul's favorite pastimes, and there was nothing still about the way Callum was grinding into him now. Of course the one  _disadvantage_  of kilts was ...   
  
Paul grimaced, and said, "Wool. Chafing."   
  
Callum knelt up at once, and flipped the front of Paul's kilt up. The light touch of his fingers running up the length of Paul's cock immediately soothed the slight irritation.   
  
Paul sank back in bliss. "Definitely love the easy access."   
  
"Easy access should be your middle name," Callum retorted without breaking rhythm, and Paul smirked. It was true where Callum was concerned.   
  
Paul felt the mattress dip to the side, and he cracked open his eyes to see Callum climb off him and over the side of the bed to go digging in his luggage. "Check my sporran," he told him.   
  
"No, I got it." Callum waved a hand with supplies from his bag. As he climbed back astride Paul and tossed the tube and packet onto the bed, he added, "Lube in your sporran, really? Jesus."   
  
"What else would you keep in there?" Paul replied with a leer and wiggle of his eyebrows. Then his brain started helpfully supplying him with stereotypically Scottish ideas for sporran use, like haggis jerky and sheep laxative. "Never mind. Don't answer that."   
  
Callum snorted, and took up the condom packet. He nodded at the tube. "Make yourself useful." Then he opened the packet and started rolling the condom over Paul's erection, teasing him harder as he went.   
  
"Fuck." A full-body shiver from the handjob alone was enough to make Paul squirt the lube wildly on his first attempt at slicking his fingers. Callum just grinned, unrepentant, but he behaved enough during the second attempt for Paul to be successful.   
  
The problem was—Paul eyed Callum perched upright astride his hips—the problem was that there was glorious naked Callum under the kilt, but there were yards of fabric falling in a tent that obscured the view. He picked up Callum's front hem with his dry hand and tucked it into the waistband, then repeated the process until enough kilt was rolled away to give him the easy access he'd been fantasizing about.   
  
With one hand he mimicked what Callum was doing with him. With the other he reached between Callum's legs and back to slide and stroke and stretch and fill until Callum raised himself up, smacking Paul's hand away, and lowered himself slowly onto Paul's cock.   
  
Paul closed his eyes in bliss, holding utterly still to prevent the tight heat from sending him over the edge immediately. Callum lifted himself up and down in a smooth stroke that wrenched a whimper from Paul and sent him grabbing for Callum's hips to hold him still. Finally he experimented with a push up into a slow glide himself.   
  
"Dinnae tell meh ye're jeeked already, ye great jessie. Come on, put yir back into it!"   
  
The brogue startled Paul into a harder thrust. Really, how the fuck had he never heard Callum do this accent before?   
  
"That's muir like it. Move!"   
  
Paul opened his eyes, and Callum was giving him his evil grin number three, the one that was all bared teeth and heat. Paul scrabbled a bunch of kilt behind Callum out of the way to deliver a smack to a butt cheek. "Bastard."   
  
Callum's grin morphed into a genuine laugh, and Paul took the moment to lever his balance and flip them both over. "You want me to move ..." he growled. He pounded in hard, completely immersing himself in  _Callum, Callum, Callum_ , and he could see from the look on Callum's face he was hitting the right spot—that and the breathy  _oh, fuck, yeah_ s.   
  
Paul slipped a hand in between their hips to circle Callum's cock and give him something to push into, a counterpoint to double his sensations—a way to, please God, get him off before Paul lost control of his own orgasm. And yes, thank you, it worked, Callum quickly spilling into his fist. With another ten strokes, Paul tipped over the edge as well, and collapsed.   
  
"Get off ye great beast," Callum grumped at him, and Paul couldn't help but laugh.   
  
"Oh, I did. I did."   
  
"Fucker," Callum sighed.   
  
Paul stuck a hand down to keep hold of the condom, then slid carefully out and rolled over onto his side. Callum was still lying back, blissed out. Paul loved seeing him like this. He went to the bathroom to dump the condom and wet a cloth with warm water, then came back and gently wiped down Callum's belly.   
  
"'S the kilt okay?" Callum asked, not bothering to open his eyes.   
  
"The kilt's  _more_  than okay." Paul easily dodged the kick Callum aimed at him for that one. "Yeah," he conceded, "it doesn't look like it took a hit."   
  
Callum hummed acknowledgment. "We should ..." He finally heaved himself up and started pulling off his T shirt.   
  
"Yeah, okay." They both stripped down, and crawled under the covers together. And that was another thing Paul appreciated about Callum—no matter how prickly and hard-to-get he played before sex, afterwards he liked to curl up together, skin to skin, as much as Paul did. Secret hedonist.   
  
Callum reached over to turn out the light, then nestled into the spooning Paul pulled him into. "So, kilt kink."   
  
"Brand new," Paul admitted. "You in a kilt—boom." He thought back over the way the kilt had actually concealed Callum during the proceedings. "Have to work on the easy access, though."   
  
"Mmm," Callum hummed in agreement. "Experiment. Tomorrow you're on your hands and knees, and your kilt is going over your back."   
  
Paul couldn't help a low growl of anticipation at the thought, and pulled himself closer against Callum.   
  
Good thing he was planning to do a movie here. He fucking  _loved_  Scotland. 


End file.
